


A Lesson in Mortality

by compos_dementis



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Animal Death, Autistic Sherlock, Gen, Kidlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-07
Updated: 2014-03-07
Packaged: 2018-01-14 20:54:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1278508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compos_dementis/pseuds/compos_dementis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blinking in confusion, Sherlock looks again to the bird. “It won’t wake up,” he says slowly, trying to comprehend what’s happened.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Lesson in Mortality

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a tumblr prompt. Also written with this picture in mind: http://voodooling.tumblr.com/post/54618575658/mycroft-is-it-sleeping-no-sherlock-the
> 
> (Sorry it's not a proper link. Not sure how to do that.)

“It’s not moving,” Sherlock says when Mycroft’s familiar shadow looms over him.

He’s on his knees in the garden. He’s never minded getting dirty, which likely shows on his clothing — there’s dirt and mud caked on his shoes and trousers from playing with his imaginary companions. There are dry, brown leaves in his hair, and a smear of dirt across one cheek, but he doesn’t mind. Mycroft always makes him take a bath in the evenings before bed, so he likes to get dirty while he can.

His concern isn’t the dirt, or the frayed tear in the leg of his trousers. It’s the bird lying motionless in his hands. Sherlock, six years old, has only just begun talking a few months prior, but he knows enough words to communicate his needs and desires. The rest he can accomplish with body language, which he uses now by looking up at his older brother in distress.

Mycroft kneels down with him, and says gently, “It’s dead, Sherlock.”

Blinking in confusion, Sherlock looks again to the bird. “It won’t wake up,” he says slowly, trying to comprehend what’s happened to the poor thing. Other birds are flying overhead right now, or singing happily in the trees; why isn’t this one moving?

His brother gives a quiet sigh. It’s the same sigh he gives when Sherlock says things that are out of line; but instead of reprimanding him, Mycroft puts an arm around Sherlock’s tiny shoulders.

"It isn’t alive anymore. It likely ran into a window and broke its neck." There’s a short silence, and then Sherlock blinks again, at the bird and then at Mycroft. His mind is spinning, trying to make sense of everything, and he opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again.

"Why?"

Thankfully, Mycroft understands him better than most do. He isn’t asking about the window or the broken neck. He wants to know why this happens at all.

Less thankfully, Mycroft doesn’t have an answer readily available. Sherlock begins growing impatient as Mycroft thinks.

"Everything dies, Sherlock," he says finally. "Everything living — trees, grass, animals — they grow old, or something happens to them, and they die. They don’t come back."

The thought that the bird won’t ever fly again is bothersome, to say the least. Sherlock had been hoping that he could fix it somehow, make it better; apparently not. He sits on his heels and wraps his fingers around the bird’s small, feathery body.

"Will you die?" he softly asks.

Another small pause, but then Mycroft nods. “Yes,” he replies. “I’ll die too. Not for a long time, though.”

Sherlock’s heart seizes and he’s overcome with a sense of panic. “I don’t want you to die.”

Mycroft laughs. Sherlock doesn’t think this is very funny, and when he doesn’t smile in return, Mycroft’s fades. “I know. I won’t be dying anytime soon. You’ll be very old when I die, I imagine.”

The peaceful and serene atmosphere of the garden doesn’t seem to fit with how sad Sherlock suddenly feels. He sets the bird on the grass again, rubs his hands against his dirty trousers. Everything dies; they don’t come back.

"We can bury it, if you like," Mycroft offers. Sherlock thinks about it — making a little grave for the unnamed bird. It wouldn’t make a difference.

Sherlock says, “No,” and then, looking up at Mycroft again, he asks, “Can we go inside now?”

Neither of them ever talk about the bird again, but Sherlock climbs into Mycroft’s bed every night for a week following the incident, just to make sure he’s still breathing.


End file.
